


The Problem With Bad Ideas

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with bad ideas is that they sometimes turn out to be very good ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem With Bad Ideas

Oh, this is a bad idea. A bad, bad, bad idea. 

The problem with bad ideas, especially ideas as bad as this one, is that they're really very, very good. And this is turning out to be one of the best bad ideas Greg's had. 

Well, it wasn't Greg's idea at first. But he's more than willing to take direction on it. 

Sherlock's mouth is hot and wet and demanding as he sucks Greg's cock like he was destined to do it. Sherlock fingers are slick as he penetrates Greg, scissoring them as he stretches and loosens Greg's arsehole. 

And, okay, by now, surely Sherlock's figured out that this is the first time Greg's done this sort of thing, but he's also sure that Sherlock knows how much he's enjoying it. 

Because, really, it's the best fuck Greg's had in a long, long, time. 

Sherlock pulls off of Greg and removes his fingers and Greg can't help but give a muted whine. Sherlock chuckles, reaching for more lube and a condom. 

"Patience, Detective Inspector," he says. "Good things come to those who wait."

"Try calling me by my name," Greg growls and Sherlock laughs again. Fuck, but it's gorgeous – Sherlock's pale body, limned with light from the bathroom, the duvet tangled in his legs, the trail of hair leading down to his flushed and erect cock. Greg had never _ever_ imagined it would be like this. 

Because of course Greg hadn't ever imagined this. 

Not, well, publically. Privately, well, that's another story entirely. 

It's only been the stuff of wank fantasies for the six months he's known Sherlock. And it didn't _really_ take that much convincing on Sherlock's part to bring them back to Greg's. And Greg thinks he should probably be worried about that, but he's not because, oh… it’s _exactly_ what he wanted.

Sherlock's chin is wet with spit and his eyes are bright as he eases into Greg with agonizing slowness.

"Oh, fuck," Greg mutters, reaching up to grasp the headboard.

" _Relax_ , Lestrade," Sherlock grunts, easing his cock in and out of Greg's slick hole. "This will be a great deal… unf… easier if you just… God… keep still."

Greg lets out a shuttering breath and tries to relax. The burn and stretch of an actual cock in his arse is something he'd never really thought about before, but _oh_ … He squeezes his eyes shut.

"Fuck, Lestrade," Sherlock says as he slides past the tight ring of muscle. 

"Yeah," Greg says, panting. "I think that's… what we're supposed to be, oh, oh, oh…"

All logical thought flees from Greg's head as Sherlock begins to move. 

It hurts, a bit, but the sudden shock of pleasure that Greg gets as the head of Sherlock's cock rubs against his prostate overcomes the discomfort. 

"Yes, exactly," Sherlock says. 

Greg opens his eyes again and sees Sherlock, head bent, watching as he thrusts in and out of him. Sherlock's hands are pressing down on his hips, his grip keeping Greg's thighs parted as his own hips move. Greg reaches out to touch Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock's head snaps up as his hips slam into Greg. 

Greg gives a startled shout, his head tossing back, his eyes squeezing shut. Fuck, but it's good.

"Keep. Them. Open," Sherlock grates out. "I want to watch you, Lestrade. I want to watch you get fucked. You're loving this, I know. I can tell. Your greedy arsehole, pulling me in, your mouth as you sucked me in the entryway – you've wanted me for so long, fantasized about losing your virginity to me – what a _bad_ idea it is, how much trouble you could get into at the Yard. Bad enough that you've agreed to take my advice, but even worse that you're letting me fuck you."

How Sherlock can possibly speak right now is beyond Greg's comprehension. Fascinated, he watches as Sherlock fucks him, his own cock slapping against his stomach. He shouldn't be hard right now, he thinks, but he is. 

And then Sherlock reaches down and begins to stroke his cock. 

Greg lets out a strangled cry; how Sherlock managed to know, to deduce, the exact rhythm Greg uses to get himself off is beyond him, but oh, oh, fuck…

What noises are coming out of Greg's mouth, he doesn't know – only hopes he's not shouting so loudly that his neighbors hear him and call the police. And suddenly, too soon, he thinks later, for it to be _that_ impressive in terms of stamina, he's coming and he's sure he sees stars. Dimly he hears Sherlock grunt and feels him slam against him, but he's practically unconscious at that point, and so any evidence he'd have been able to give would be incredibly suspect. 

Greg manages to peel open his eyes as Sherlock's easing out from him. Dazed, he watches Sherlock peel off the condom clamber off the bed to the bathroom. Greg blinks as Sherlock comes back, this time with a wet flannel that he tosses onto Greg's stomach.

"Here," he says. "You'll want that."

Gingerly, because oh, he _is_ sore, Greg cleans himself up and throws the flannel on the floor. Sherlock is crouched, still naked, in the chair Greg uses for his clean laundry (now in a heap on the floor), smoking a cigarette and watching Greg carefully through the smoke. 

His hair is tousled, he's flushed from sternum to throat and Greg knows he's totally lost. 

"Well, Lestrade?" Sherlock asks. 

Greg grunts and rolls over, pulling the duvet across his lap and flipping the other half back to reveal the sheet.

"Are you coming to bed?" he asks Sherlock. "Or…"

Sherlock rises and walks to the bed. Drops the cigarette in a discarded tea mug where it hisses and goes out. 

"You would be a cuddler," he says, somewhat resignedly. 

"Yeah, well humor an old man," Greg says. Sherlock grunts and crawls into the bed. He rests his head on Greg's chest and wraps his arms around his torso. 

Sleep is rapidly overtaking Greg as he reaches down and runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

"Is it always like this?" Greg asks, and then wishes that he hadn't.

"Unf? With me? Yes," comes the muffled reply. "Now shut up, I want to sleep."

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. Just more PWP.


End file.
